


Of Demons and Dustoffs

by ChasetheSun2



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Fantasizing, Gen, Homecoming, Implied/Referenced Incest, Injury, Masturbation, Mild Painplay, Past Incest, Soldier Karkat, Tags May Change, Thanksgiving, Work In Progress
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-20
Updated: 2018-09-20
Packaged: 2019-07-14 17:34:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,524
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16045271
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChasetheSun2/pseuds/ChasetheSun2
Summary: Your name is Karkat Vantas and you don't want to go home for a myriad of reasons.





	Of Demons and Dustoffs

The sun is blazing when you step off the plane.

After so many months of graveyard shifts it’s like putting a hot poker in both your eyes. Autumn, your ass - if this is autumn then you have to be a freshly weaned kitten for the amount you’re blinded and squinting. You rub your eyes to try and get rid of the glare, but all you succeed in doing is making yourself see stars.

It shines as you finally get your bearings in the unfamiliar airport. It shines as you manage somehow to get yourself lost, not even thirty feet from where you're supposed to be, and have to hopelessly ask someone in a security uniform where the hell you are. It shines as he points you towards a very obvious sign right above your head, and it shines as you groan expletives to yourself and march towards the baggage claim to get what little you came here with.

It doesn’t stop shining, either. From the day you spend recuperating at the base in Barstow, to the grueling trip from California straight to New York, you have to hide behind cheap gas-station sunglasses just to be able to fucking drive sometimes. And it’s not like you’re about to make it any easier on yourself by driving in the night, no; you want torture yourself, apparently. You're a slut for punishment and you clearly just want to add insult to the giant injury that is your life, both literal and metaphorical.

You also want to - have to, really - be back on a diurnal schedule by the time you make it home. 

Even the thought of going home sets your stomach in knots. 

It's somewhere along the third day of travel and just driving into Lawrence that the anxious nausea begins to really set in. Your guts churn as you pull into some random motel parking lot, thinking it's only another day and a half until you're there. Until you’re knocking on the door of a house that you've never lived in, sleeping in a bed that's far too familiar for your tastes and that probably still smells like the musty dampness of your old basement bedroom. Your hands shake and for a moment you see stars as you get out of your car to pay for a room. You grab at your crutches before you can fall over like the moron that you are.

You're certain that the manager at the front desk thinks you're some creep dealer, with your grey hoodie and jeans, the sunglasses perched on the edge of your nose, limping on crutches from some unseen wound under your clothes. It wouldn't help, either, if your meticulously trimmed hair were a little longer - you know it would be curling and tangled about your face like a curtain of shaggy dog fur. Thankfully, he says nothing and hands over a key, which you jingle in a half-hearted attempt at a thanks and head to your room.

The bed in your motel room doesn't smell like yours. 

You close the blinds to keep the blasted sun off your face, take off your shades, and lay down. It's no Hilton, but you spotted a clean bill from the health inspector out front, and there's a TV and shower, so you're not going to complain too much. You've definitely slept in worse places in the last two years. 

With a sigh you close your eyes, letting yourself try and relax. Your shoes are kicked off and you curl up on the bed on top of the covers. Your guts are still churning. You roll over onto your left side and it helps for maybe a minute, but then it comes back full force and you think you might actually vomit just from nerves alone. Something in the back of your mind whispers,  _ it's not normal to be this anxious about going home. You're not normal. _

You firmly tell that voice to shut the fuck up. You don't have time for this edgy, active self-loathing - you'd rather keep it low-key so you can at least pretend it's just a playful jab at yourself. It quiets down and you sigh with a kind of exasperated relief as you don't feel any more annoying intrusive thoughts. 

The ticking of the wall clock prompts you to look over in the silence following your own internal griping. It's only five yet. You could go for dinner somewhere, you suppose, but it's almost too early to escape the restaurant rush and you don't want to ruin yourself on takeout the first day out. You could shower, wait around for a little bit, maybe. Hey, motels usually let you order some delivery - no, wait, a glance at the motel amenities list says you definitely can't do that. There goes that idea. 

You sigh and rub your stupidly short hair out of its nonexistent spot on your face. You're not even that hungry anyway, you don't know why you're fussing over food when your stomach hasn't even started growling yet. Maybe it's just the schedule of things that you've gotten so used to, even with jet lag, clinging to the back of your mind. Without thinking about it you twist the ring settled around your right ring finger.

You could always have a wank to pass the time, your brain helpfully supplies.

The idea isn't immediately rejected. It's been a while; sleeping with half a dozen or more other sweaty, barely-washed men in one large bunk is not exactly conducive to a sexy image for one's nighttime wanderings. Besides, there's nothing really worth jerking it over lately for you. But hey, if it'll get your mind off your guts - both hunger and nausea-wise - you'll go for it. You know this is probably the only alone time you'll have for the next month, anyway. 

With a small huff of breath you undo your pants, putting one hand behind your head as you shove them down. Thanks to your usual rapid-fire response to the slightest idea of getting off, your cock is already half-hard as you grasp it and start to stroke. Your breaths hitch and a groan slips unbidden from between your lips. It really has been too long. You're quick to full hardness, hips tensing in a way that sends shocks through your bad leg. But you'd be lying if you said the little sparks of pain didn't add to the sensations, and you start to pant as you stroke harder. 

Your mental image is blurry, at first; a soft, warm mouth over your cock, full lips and hollowing cheeks intent on sucking you dry as a hot, wet tongue circles your frenulum and sucks teasingly. You pinch it slightly in time with the fantasy and moan like a whore, toes curling. The mouth takes on a soft brown blush, softening pink near the middle. You think nothing of it, or the high cheekbones covered in freckles that assault your mind's image of exactly who is making you writhe on the bed. 

Your breaths get heavy and jolting; with every upward brush against the head of your cock your hips twitch. Your nails scratch at the rough denim of your jeans. Your leg burns with every movement up against your hand and it's so good, so achingly good, that you hold the muscle of your thigh and  _ squeeze _ to keep the pain going. You're not going to last long like this--

Piercing brown eyes look up at you from under a shaggy wave of untameable curls. Your mental movie reel grinds to a halt, your vision goes white and you cum over your hand with a panting cry of alarm and satisfaction in equal amounts. 

The face in your image has the audacity to smile at you innocently.  _ Fuck you,  _ you hiss at it as it vanishes.

Your hand slows to a halt with the last waves of your orgasm still shuddering through you. With the haze of oxytocin slowly ebbing away from your systems you can feel the pain in your leg sharper now than it has been in the last week and you hiss as your muscles cramp and seize. You wouldn't be surprised if it's started bleeding, but you can't seem to find the amount of fucks necessary to get up and check. There's bandages on it, you think, tucking yourself back into your pants and rolling over to fish the painkillers out of your duffel bag. That'll do fine until whenever you manage to get up. 

As it turns out 'whenever you manage to get up' won't be until the next morning. Before you know it the painkillers have sunk in, and so has the day's exhaustion from driving for twelve hours straight. Your eyelids flutter and you don't even bother fighting them. You can clean off your hand tomorrow, you think, barely registering the slick dampness that covers it. Showers feel great in the morning, anyway. At least you don't feel nauseous anymore. 

Your eyes shut and you start to snore. It's the first good night's sleep you've had since landing, and the fucking sun hasn't even gone down yet.

 

 


End file.
